


HANDS

by DeanandCas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, Mild Angst, POV Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:26:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanandCas/pseuds/DeanandCas
Summary: An important mission had been conferred upon the being to whom those hands belonged. Sacrifice meant nothing when the righteous man was to be saved.





	HANDS

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Mãos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9224915) by [DeanandCas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanandCas/pseuds/DeanandCas). 



Archaic, they carried only a spark in their immaterial palms. Closed, they instilled in the precious cargo some of the light from which they were made.

An important mission had been conferred upon the being to whom those hands belonged. Sacrifice meant nothing when the Righteous Man was to be saved.

When the time had come, bearing the blade bestowed upon him by the celestial hosts, the Angel had advanced bravely until he found the spark that shone in the darkness.

*****

Ripped from its place, the fractured soul emitted a weak energy. Confused by the momentary absence of pain, it pulsed feebly.

Slowly opening his fingers - long columns of bluish light - to observe, the fortitude of the being that had been taken away from perdition was revealed as it shone in contact with the divine energy of its bearer.

Any angel of the Host, even an Archangel, would be honored to be appointed the mission of restoring the Righteous Man so that it could be an instrument of the completion of the Divine Plans. The honor, however, had fallen upon Castiel. Devoid of vanity and pride, he lived in obedience and humility, the perfect agent for the heavenly purposes.

Imbued with the importance of his deeds, he said a silent prayer that he might diligently carry out the great task entrusted to him. The first part of the mission was nothing in comparison to the one ahead.

Accessing the memories etched in his mind for all his existence, he reviewed what needed to be done. His Father had made sure that all the angels knew the material structure of what was to be the human vessel of the supreme defender of Heaven when the moment of the final battle came.

Slowly and carefully he set to work. Encapsulating the now fragile soul into his own light, he sought to ensure that it was strong enough to be the core around which the human body would be rebuilt. The remnants of the original body, severely torn, laid in its tomb, on Earth, when Castiel had rescued the soul. He, who had never known the Righteous Man in life, could recreate his body under the direct guidance of God.

As the glow became brighter and more stable, the angel began to weave, according to the original design of the Creator, the vessel that would contain the soul.

Infinitesimal cellular structures formed the basic units of the organism. These, united according to the specific functions assigned to them, created tissues and organs. Castiel, though fully focused on the task, could not help but feeling humble before such an impressive creation.

Like an embryo in the maternal womb, in the radiant palms of the angel, the being developed rapidly. Soon there was the inanimate body of a boy with fair skin and light hair, finally replaced by the finished forms of a young man at the plenitude of life.

Still unconscious, while the soul gradually regained its power, the body was strangely interesting in the eyes of the Angel. For millennia he had kept himself from Humanity, but faced with one of its most important specimens, he couldn't help but study it carefully. Even if the location of each strand of hair, the curvature of the limbs, or the exact color of the pupils was meticulously etched in his memory, he couldn't help marveling at the shape of the vertebrae, the natural delicacy of fingerprints, or the apparent imperfection of the tiny brown spots that covered his skin.

A new layer of perception was added to the knowledge that he carried, as an artist who executed a work which had long been idealized, finally experiencing the pleasure of creation, only to lose himself in its aesthetic appreciation.

That thought made him shiver, ashamed. He couldn't even conceive the idea of creating something, much less a being as perfect as the one he held in his palms. Castiel was a mere craftsman, reproducing the perfect creation of the Father. He apologized for his loss of perspective, which made him feel, for a fraction of a second, proud of his work.

Before he could finish the prayer, the body, hitherto inert, stirred, the air penetrating the lungs in a sharp inhalation.

Recalling the urgency of his mission, he wrapped the body in clothes, as instructed, and returned him to the place where the two men had buried him.

But he didn't know that this single thought had altered the final form of the man he had reconstructed, adding to him an indelible mark. Not realizing it while it happened, he had signed a work that was not his own.


End file.
